One Pea Short of a Pod: Part Three -- the finale

A weekend at Oak Alley with J and M... the last hoorah! Yeah, I'm a lot later than I promised on getting this posted. Hopefully it'll be worth the wait -- and if not. Don't tell me. I'm fragile. *grin*

Day Three:

The iron fence post in the cemetery.

I love trees -- the bigger and older the better. There’s something ethereal about really old large trees. Something tugs at the center of my chest and steals my breath away when I stand under their vast branches. I’ve heard people talk about this same feeling when they’ve walked into a centuries old cathedral or experienced some sort of spiritual awakening or baptism. That’s what trees do for me. Trees are the cathedrals that God makes. And in that moment I take pause to think of all they’ve seen, my own eyes widen with wonder. It’s like a tiny baptism for me. And we just chop them down to pave roads and erect strip malls in their place.

I think that’s why Oak Alley is so amazing. The caretakers of this property know the value of trees. The mansion is impressive, the history is undeniably valuable, but it’s the trees that people spend the most time with and will travel thousands of miles to see.

So I wasn’t surprised when we sat at breakfast that morning and a caravan of buses and RVs rolled into the parking lot. By all accounts, it should’ve been a slow Monday morning. But I understand the need to see the trees. And I’m glad of it. Because as long as the people come, their long lives are protected -- at least from us.

The external-path canopies of tree branches were breathtaking.

Monday was our designated workday. We’d done the tour, taken a million and half photos and (let’s be honest), with nine tour buses and more campers that we cared to count, our cottage was looking mighty appealing. Neither Jeannie nor I are big on crowds.

Leaving the café we had the best conversation that two writers reclaiming their Mojo could have with the hostess. She asked if we’d enjoyed our visit and if we’d seen the mansion. We said we had and we were planning on a quiet day of writing in our cottage. Her eyes brightened and she said, “You’re writers! That’s so exciting. I love books! What do you write?” We each beamed. Then Jeannie and I each rattled off out interests and projects in Urban Fantasy, Paranormal Romance and YA. The hostess’s smile dimmed and she replied, “Oh.” Then, she frowned. “I don’t ever read fiction.”

Awkward. Here’s that slice of humble pie you didn’t ask for (but probably needed). Please and thanks.

So, we ducked into the gift shop, licking our wounds. Jeannie might have bought another voodoo doll. I can’t be sure.

Meta-photography. Jeannie framed in oaks and portico.

We spent the afternoon holed up in the cottage with our laptops, bird sandwiches, broccoli soup, and lots of coffee and tea. I think the best thing about being with another writer on a retreat like this is there’s never awkward silence. There were clicking waves of feverish typing from time to time… but then there was always a measure of silence. And even when all that ever happens is silence, and we find ourselves staring at a blank screen, we understand the need to be inside of our own heads. Especially right then. And there’s no judgment. No expectations. Most of all, there’s no request to look for the shoes that have vanished but magically reappeared the moment your butt leaves your office chair and, incidentally, are right where you told your husband you’d seen them last. The magic of being with a fellow Pea is she knows where her shoes are and even if she doesn’t, she wouldn’t expect you stop writing to look for them. Peas find their own shoes.

We did take a couple of breaks. And we did talk. It wasn’t all silence. There was some mumbling to voodoo dolls in the kitchen. I hoped it was J. I couldn’t ever prove it wasn’t. I also took some time to fill out a bunch of postcards and send them away. It’s sort of my thing. Postcards. Most everyone I know has received a postcard from me at least once. Or will, eventually. (I need to work on my segues.)

But the best part of our laid back afternoon at the cottage was Cam II. Last year, at the cabin in the woods, Alexis was bed mates with a lizard. Literally. (That isn’t some crazy metaphor or secret code.) There was a lizard hibernating atop a calendar, which was hung on a bunk-bed post. I guess he wanted to make sure he didn’t oversleep. At any rate, he stayed with us the entire Pea-treat. So you can imagine my excitement when I saw Cam II sitting tucked between the blinds behind a sheer curtain. It was like an omen, a blessing, a symbol of our returning inspiration embodied in the length of a garden lizard. Cam the Chameleon had reincarnated and appeared to us. Come to us in the form of a tiny reptile, our Mojo had returned. The clouds opened, the wordsmith angels sung. We would live to write another day.

Cam

We gaped. We awed. We relished in the chameleon. And then, I said, “Damn that lizard looks skinny.”

J replied, “Yup, that’s a skinny lizard.”

“Do you think he needs to eat?” I asked.

“How would I know whether he needs to eat, M?”

“I dunno.” I shrugged and peered closer at our emaciated symbol of hope. “It’s warm again. Maybe I’ll put him outside.”

“Whatever,” J sighed.

I looked at J with wide eyes. “I mean, what if he dies in here? We can’t let a chameleon die in here. What would Cam say?”

“You realize,” J said, raising an eyebrow at me. “It’s not a chameleon. And neither was Cam. They are called anoles.”

“Whatever,” I scoffed.

Peeling away the sheer curtain, I reached between the slats of blinds to recover our little chameleon-anole friend. He’d woken from a dead sleep, his green blinking eyes flashed with fear. And then, he leaped at my face like a rabid spider monkey. I shrieked like a banshee and flicked him off onto the couch before realizing my folly. I heard J’s voice, distant and unimpressed, as she said, “I don’t think he likes that.” But I ignored her, thinking only of what would happen to us if our emaciated hope died! Oh, the insanity! So, I dove into the couch cushions after him. He shimmied to the floor, and I knocked over the coffee table as I scampered on hands and knees across the hardwood to recover him. Finally, squishing his lizard face against the edge of the carpet, I panted and bellowed, “Gotcha!” (*Note: this scene has been dramatized for your entertainment.)

With Cam II clutched between my hands, I brought him outside. I walked into the nearby field. The sun beamed down and I opened my hands. His little reptile face brightened as his skin warmed. He blinked as if to say, “Thank you.”  I released him into the cool green grass.

J appeared behind me and said, “Do you feel better?”
“Yes,” I replied as we turned and walked back to the cottage. “He can eat and grow strong.”
“Or get eaten by a raven,” J said. “There was a lot of them at the edge of the field today.”
I gasped and I ran in the direction of Cam II screaming, “Oh, gods! I’m so sorry!”

I spent the next ten minutes chasing after the tiny lizard in the grass until I re-caught him. Panting, with grass-stained knees and my heart beating wildly against my ribcage, I put him in a bush right next to the cottage where there were plenty of bugs.  I had to do right by Cam II. The guilt would have ruined me.

Tree love.

After an uneventful dinner, J and I decided to do the one thing we were most excited about. We grabbed our flashlights and headed out onto the grounds after dark. This was definitely my favorite part of the trip. Why? It was all about the trees.

We hiked across the large field between the cottages and the estate. It was warmer than it had been the previous two nights, and we were the only guests on the property. We had the whole place to ourselves and we relished in it.

After skirting around the mansion and trying to peek into the windows in hopes of having a paranormal encounter (not that either of us really thought a ghost would press its face against the window to stare back at us -- but we could hope), we strolled down the path.

Flashlights off, feeling the immensity of the branches that hung overhead in the crushing darkness, we sat on a bench. Looking at the stars through those earthly skylights of leaf and branch, we imagined. We imagined the characters and stories we could tell. We imagined the histories we could create. We did what we as writers love more than the air we breathe (it is the air we breathe) -- we gave the reigns of our mind over to our imaginations. And we flourished.

Mansion in evening light. The new oaks view.

In the end, it wasn’t the cottage, a ghost, or a skinny lizard that rescued us. It was the possibility held within the branches of those oaks, the quiet darkness, and each other. And that, in the end, is what a Pea-treat is all about.


Tomorrow, Alexis attempts to wrap her brain around a book she's read and shares it with The World. *cue ominous music*

One Pea Short of a Pod: Part Two

A Weekend at Oak Alley with J and M… continued

Day Two:

The mansion and oaks -- stunning.

There’s a certain kind of quiet one will experience whilst sleeping in an old quarter-house situated alongside the pastoral landscape of the Mississippi River Road. And at its heart, Oak Alley A.K.A. Bon Séjour -- even in all her glorious grandeur -- is merely a not-so-small country home. I’d forgotten how eerily quiet a country home could be.

I woke with a start in the middle of the night to a mysterious creak coming from the next room. The living eyes of the child’s portrait -- dusted in the sick yellow glow of a nearby security light -- hung over my bed and glared down on me. I shivered. The fractured images of the dozens of people that must’ve died on the grounds over the estate’s long life flickered through my mind. I heard another creak. My palms sweated. My heart raced against an inexplicable mounting fear.

The child's photo over my bed.

Then, with a hiss of breath whispering from the next room, I remembered the mysterious voodoo dolls J had acquired the day before. I felt my body grow cold, rigid.

Not really.

The truth? J’s bed was incredibly squeaky and it caused me to giggle like a child at a sleepover every time she adjusted herself under the covers. And… it was crazy cold! I think our first night in Cottage 6 might’ve been the coldest January night in Valcherie, LA (sound familiar). As you may recall, we did have central heat and air, but M wasn’t getting out of bed to crank up the thermostat at 3am. Brr.

A few hours later, as daylight broke, I heard another creak, a frantic rustle of fabric, and a low groan. I peered around the door to spy J, shuffling off to the kitchen with a sheet over her head and mumbling something that sounded a bit like, “Goffeeeee...”

That was my only undead sighting of the Pea-treat.
J wakes early for a voodoo-doll-wielding-vampire.

We followed through with our plans to tour the mansion. Off to breakfast we ambled -- knowing more coffee (ie: liquid life) awaited us at the cafe. We were seated near a few tables of excited travelers, snowbirds from the north, and J and I did what we do best. We eavesdropped while noshing on our eggs and crispy bacon

Old typewriting in Cottage 6 -- fitting

After breakfast, we toured the house. With the clang of the bell, the doors opened and a period dressed lady met us. We went room by room, learning the history of the former residents since 1839 – the Romans, the Stewarts, and what little is known of those that came in between. Afterward, standing on the portico of the mansion, we sipped our icy lemonades as the winter wind whipped around us. We said to one another, “I don’t know about reclaiming our Mojo but this iced drink thing was a pretty ridiculous plan.” So we bundled our frostbite phalanges into the pockets of our coats and headed to the cottage for hot tea, lunch, and an afternoon of writing.

Having consumed a lovely broccoli cheese soup and sandwiches, which we cobbled together in our cottage kitchen, J set up her voodoo dolls and laptop at the bar. I settled onto the couch where I promptly emailed J -- formally requesting her participation in an interview for Court Street Literary Collective. (grin) “Really?” she said to me, unamused.

By late afternoon we’d consumed liters of tea and coffee, and were in need of an outing. Out the door we went -- but this time I had my fancy camera in tow. We wandering the grounds until after the tours closed for the night, snapping dozens of photos. Only the two of us and one other passive-aggressive photographer -- who we couldn’t decide whether he followed us because he wanted us to leave or he was frightened to be alone but too shy to say as much. Either way, the miraculous method in which he juggled his large camera whilst talking on his mobile will forever be remembered and may, or may not, be recorded for all time as a character trait in some future story.

Sunset reflections in a sugar kettle at Oak Alley

By dark, we were hungry and we headed back to the cottage where I offered to cook and promptly tried to burn the building to the ground. (Perhaps, a mild exaggeration?) Well, see… what had happened was… I left the Panko crusted fish under the broiler for a tad bit longer than intended. As I tried to rectify my folly, J entered the kitchen and said, “Um… Chel. It’s kinda smoky in here.” Not bothering to look at her, because I was fiercely scraping the burned bits off the top of the fish, I replied, “Yeah, I know. I know. The fish was a tad over broiled-” Silence. Then J said with a sternness that I’d not ever experienced before, “No! You don’t understand. It’s smoky in here…look!” So I did. As I looked above me, into the fifteen-foot ceilings of our quarter-house, I saw thick black smoke blotting out the ceiling light like an eclipse. Then, I watched it roil under the door casings into the adjacent dining and living areas like an evil Louisiana swamp fog. We looked at one another and promptly darted in opposite direction to open all the windows and doors before the fire alarm went off.

It was a crisis averted, until I sat down with my fish and inhaled its Panko crust into my lungs. The sting of fresh burnt Japanese breadcrumbs raked against my organ walls with each breath I took and I realized it was time to lick my wounds, curl under the covers, and call it a night. The fish was determined to get me one-way or another. I was convinced. Before the lights switched off, J said to me, “Maybe we need to go back to the gift shop and buy you one of those health warding voodoo dolls...”

One of the newer oaks by twilight.

Touché.

Tomorrow, one final installment of One Pea short of a Pod and my love affair with old trees exposed. I promise... it's almost over. I've fallen into a mire of gluttonous overwriting. It can't possibly last much longer. Better here than my manuscript. (grin)

Then, on our next featured Tuesday, Alexis will be a Pea in the Pages with some suggested reading and perhaps a review or two. She's been mad reading these days and I can't wait to see what books she's had her nose tucked into.

Valentine's Day Book Recommendations

What better way to celebrate Valentine's Day than with a good book? Okay, yes, there are actual better ways to spend it... especially if you have a certain someone to spend it with... but the topic of love is going to be floating around everywhere today, so we Peas decided to contribute by giving you recommendations for our favorite books of love! Now, love comes in many forms, so these won't be Romance novel exclusive {though I have a feeling there will be some in there}. These are simply our favorite love stories... in any genre! Enjoy!

Since I'm the Pink Pea, and the closest Pea, in personality, to a Disney Princess, it's fitting that I start this off.

My first recommendation, of course {because I own 9 copies; one in French and one in Italian, thanks to my sister} is:

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen 

A classic. I love the innocence of this romance. I also love that they spend the entire book getting in their own way. The characters are so real in their faults, and the dialogue is, believe it or not, really witty! And of course {as there must be for me to fall in love with a book} there's at least one character I want to do some kind of physical harm to.

The Symphony of Ages Series by Elizabeth Haydon

High Fantasy. Epic Romance. You know those movies where you get more info than the main characters, and so you scream at the TV in frustrated suspense as they miss clues or walk right into obvious {to you} danger? A story that crosses the planes of time, this series has that same effect in its romance. You know well before the main characters do what's going on and you can't read fast enough for them to put it together... before it's too late. It's your classic "boy goes back in time, meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy gets sucked back to future without girl, girl unwittingly finds her way to the future years later, but neither recognize each other" story. I have never wanted a character to figure out something so badly in my life. Except for maybe this next book...

The Way of Shadows {Trilogy} by Brent Weeks

This is decidedly not a love story... on the outset. It's more like... ninja assassins with magic powers. But the love story that blooms inside these three books was, to use the word again, Epic. I nearly cried when I finished the last book because I didn't want the story to end. {Though it ended fantastically}. I am ever grateful to Michelle for suggesting these.

Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen

One of the few true romances I own, this story was beautifully told. And the plot was cleverly set up. Though I cringe at stories of love blooming from adulterous situations, factor in the time period and setting, add a scarily abusive husband/antagonist, and I can let it slide. Definitely one worth turning into a movie.

J's Black-Hearted Almost Love Stories

A thinks her list is the shortest. Nope! That would be mine. Unlike the Pink Princess and Dr. Buttons over there with her "touchy-feely" addiction, I don't read a lot of romance. If a love story pops up as the natural progression of a death and despair story, I'll read it and often enjoy it...as long as it's believable. So here are a few of my favorite "almost" love stories.

The Hunger Games Trilogy by Suzanne Collins

I love the natural progression of the "romance" between Katniss and Peeta. It fits the story, the time, the place, and the characters...and it's not over-the-top-sappy.

Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion

R is Dead. Julie is Living. Their world is changing. This is not your typical boy-meets-girl story and it has a great twist on the zombie myth. Plus, it's the first novel for the author.

The Rachel Morgan series by Kim Harrison

I love this series. Love the characters and the various love stories are real, affectionate, heart-breaking, and seamlessly blend with the action.

 My list might be the most expected (and unexpected -- in some ways). My romance reading chops started young with a very large box of some fifty Harlequin romances handed over to me by a family friend at age thirteen. Though I believe every story has a romance at it heart -- these are a few "hardcore" romances that still hold special places on my bookshelves and in my heart.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
It's no secret that Jane Eyre is my favorite romance and book, ever. I own twenty-one copies and my collection grows each year. Classic, Gothic, full of tension and missteps -- Rochester is the ultimate almost bad boy and Jane is the heroine that you want to see overcome it all in the name of love.

Jane by April Linder
A great companion read to the classic is the retelling by April Linder, Jane. I love this book as much as the original. It's a fresh up-to-date retelling of a romantic tale that shows how this story stands the test of time. I might even love Nico Rathburn a little more than Rochester -- because who doesn't love the idea of falling for a musician.

If you like a nice light romantic read I have two favorites that I dust off and reread once in a while.

Jemima J  by Jane Green
This is a fantastically fun Chic-Lit novel about an ugly duckling journalist that learns love isn't always about looking like a swan. It's a fun, fast, and light read with a lot of heart and humor.

Megan Meade's Guide to the McGowan Boys by Kate Brian 
This is a YA favorite of mine. Thrust into a household with seven boys, what's a single and only child like Megan to do? If you want to reclaim that boy crazy and young love feeling you remember at thirteen -- this is the book for you.

Both Megan and Jemima are heroines you can champion because they learn that love isn't always what you expect and sometimes we find love (and love finds us) in unexpected ways.

Lastly, Fire and Ice by Catherine Hart
If you want something a little (a lot) steamier and enjoy a fun Historical Romance, this is a classic of the genre. Pirates, a feisty Irish heroine with a couple tricks up her sleeve for rogue Captain Reed Taylor, and a lush old southern Savannah landscape -- couldn't ask for more.

Have a {sweet/romantic/sexy/steamy/fun/chocolatey/delightful/wonderful} (circle one... or more) Valentine's Day!! See you next week for part two of all the fun I missed! -A

One Pea Short of a Pod: Part One

A Weekend at Oak Alley Plantation with J & M

Jan. 29th, 2012 -- 9pm

The trees did not disappoint.

This isn’t the first pseudo writing and inspirational retreat the Ninja Peas have undertaken. It is, however, the first one with central heating and wifi. Last year, I had the hair-brained idea to gather the Peas for a night in an Escatawpa River fishing cabin on what might’ve been the coldest February night in South Mississippi. We managed to keep warm by the fire, played word games, plotted, schemed, and laughed until we cried. But the best bit? We truly reinforced our friendship through a shared passion of writing (and a heartfelt desire to survive the night as armies of woodland mice took up arms against us). It was an unforgettable thirty-six hours and we vowed to do it again.

A bug's eye view of the mansion.

Sadly, this particular weekend at Oak Alley, we are one pea short of a pod. This Pea-treat was truly meant as a retreat. Both J and I were desperate to reclaim our mojo after a hectic holiday season and some productivity stumbling blocks. Plus, with one husband home sick and another just home all the time, it was time to remember why we’d taken our marriage vows many years ago. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder -- and a Pea-treat is the first defense against too much “quality time” with one’s significant other. So, J and I planned a spontaneous (in the span of four text messages) trip to reclaim our sanity. We were booked and ready to go to the haunted plantation of our dreams before either of us thought twice about whether it was actually a good idea (or really cleared it with our husbands…oops). Thus was the origination of a Pea-treat at Oak Alley.

Since our third pea is not so flexible with impulse trips, she will be missed and will be here with us in spirit. But worry not! We have a three-pea adventure brewing for the spring (and we promise to share the madness with you).


Day One:

We left Saturday morning with excitement roiling through our veins. Nothing could stop us! J and I had always dreamed of visiting Oak Alley (rumored to be haunted and film home of Louis from Interview with a Vampire). J was thrilled by the promise of a plantation estate filled with southern gothic flare and dark storytelling inspiration. Me? It was big, big trees and a chance to walk on the same ground as Brad Pitt’s stunt horse. Of course I was excited! Alas, this feverish anticipation was quickly subdued when we’d driven all of four minutes and I said, “Sh*t! I forgot my camera.”

Around we turned then tried again.

I'm so glad we didn't leave my camera behind.

Finally on our way, we rolled west on Interstate 10 toward the Mississippi River. It quickly became clear that the GPS my husband insisted we take (note: I just wanted to bring a map) was confused and bewildered by our decision to retrieve the camera. As I drove eighty miles an hour down the interstate, screaming at the tiny box suction-cupped to my windshield, I tried to reprogram the (cocky) taunting box. Meanwhile, J sat in the passenger seat, giggling, because my interaction with the box went a little something like this: “Yes! That destination. No, wait, that’s wrong. Yes! No. Yes? No! Wait... Yes! No. Yes!” and so on. What I learned from this experience? GPS… no. Map… yes.

After the argument with the tiny (cocky) box was settled, we had a relatively uneventful two and a half hour morning drive with great weather and light traffic. We had plenty of time to chat about what we both needed to accomplish on our pending projects, our hopes for new projects, and how we intended to divvy our time between work and play until our Tuesday morning departure. Ten miles from our exit traffic came to a standstill (as is typical of any drive on a several-mile long bridge over Louisiana swampland). After imagining and talking through several really, really horrible scenarios, we determined vampire alligators would be too sleepy this time of year to scale the bridge. So we were safe… for now. We did learn (if you can call wild speculation “learning”) our near one-hour delay was merely a little old lady and her purse puppy peeing on the side of the road (we can’t be sure who was doing the peeing).

Bridge over the mighty Mississippi.

Finally, we exited and headed toward our destination. We squeed with more excitement than any mere mortal should experience. So much so, I maniacally squeed and snapped photos whilst driving over the Mississippi River Bridge. J took a moment to cover her eyes and pray -- the river’s awesomeness just too much to bear. In retrospect, J’s reaction probably had more to do with my hands not being on the steering wheel and her water phobia than the greatness of the Mighty Mississippi. But, either way, it was pretty awesome.

We drove for the longest seven miles EVER… then we squeed! Again.

Our first impression of the plantation was one of elation (and copious amounts of squeeing). We jumped out of the car at the bottom of the levee and stood, gazing down the alley of oaks from the roadside. Mouths gaping, we stood in the middle of the road, tour buses driving around us, and J said to me, “Oh, yeah. We are so coming back here with Alexis next year.”

I agreed, diving out of the way of a fast-moving vehicle and into the gravel.

Cottage 6 was perfect.

We had lunch at the plantation’s restaurant then moved into our cottage -- but not before J did what she touted was the first and most important thing of the trip. She bought a small collection of voodoo dolls from the gift shop. (Should I be frightened?) After entering the cottage with the B&B attendant (as a murder of crows crept up from the sugar cane fields and flanked the cottage… seriously…) we were each handed a flashlight and told, quite seriously, “You must have these with you if you walk the grounds after dark.”

J’s response: (maniacal laugh) “S-weet!”

M’s response: (eyes J suspiciously, eyes voodoo dolls, eyes flashlight helplessly, and scans room for anything that could be used as a wooden stake)

Perusing the cottage, we found creepy dolls and an even creepier old portrait. But, all in all, the space was wonderful and had plenty of outlets. As J said to me after dinner (stroking the heads of her voodoo dolls and shuffling to her bedroom), “This is gonna be perfect!”

Sunset over the road our first night.

Our first night at Oak Alley ended with a sunset walk around the grounds, a quiet dinner in our lovely cottage, and inspiration teeming all around us. Mojo? I think we’ve stirred it with a single mouse dropping found in the back of the cabinet by the saucepan. It wouldn’t be a Pea-treat without at least one. After all, we’re staying in an old quarter house in the middle of a sugar cane field.

Next time? The conclusion to One Pea Short of A Pod: Weekend in Oak Alley with J and M. I know, I know. The anticipation might just be too much.

Game Pod: Creation -- Six Word Inspired Flash Fiction

This week's Game Pod is taken from a little game Alexis and her mom used to play on long road trips. Each Pea was tasked with contributing two words. The Peas then created a story using all six of the words at least once (in three-hundred words or less). And this is what happened:

Princess  Iguana  Cartography  Sanguine  Horizon  Hoarding 

Island Vacation

Lacy stared at the iguana sitting on her hotel bed.

Her mother expressed her fears about her vacationing alone in St. Thomas. She doubted this was the worst of them.

Flicking her keycard at it, the iguana blinked, taunting her with its sanguine expression. It was as if the reptilian beast enjoyed the attention.

“Shoo!” She waved her fingers at it. “This is the fourth night in a row!”

She gazed toward the burnt orange and pink horizon. It was paradise. Just what she’d imagined, sans wildlife. She had to admit, the view was stunning.

She hated feeling like a helpless princess and prided herself on self-sufficiency. When she’d called the concierge last night he’d treated it like business as usual. “Yes, miss. Of course, miss. I’ll send someone over.”

The maintenance man, Jacamo, had suppressed his laughter the first night when he found her in the hallway with her pepper-spray at the ready.

“You have to be assertive,” he’d said last night, rustling the lizard out with a broom. “They’re like dogs. You have to show him who is the boss.”

“I didn’t come here to tame the local wildlife,” she’d told him. “I just wanted come to an island, have a nice guy buy me a drink, and enjoy the beach. This…” she jabbed her thumb at the intruder “…is not part of my resort package.”

She sighed and eyed the iguana. Be brave.

She imagined herself hoarding bravery like coins against her chest. She tried to think of someone who was adventurous. Lewis and Clark were the first to pop into her head. This wasn’t exactly continental cartography she was facing, but certainly they’d overcome wildlife on their adventures.

“Get out, Mr. Iguana.” She glared at it and pointed at the doorway. “I mean it.”

The lizard cocked its head then blinked each eye. It opened its mouth, exposing its fleshy tongue. She shuddered. It took one step and she ran out into the hallway and let the door slam behind her.

Jacamo was there with two unopened beers. He smiled, offering her a bottle. “Tonight’s my night off. Forget him. Let’s take a walk.”

Lacy took the beer and smiled.

(word count 364) by Michelle

The Care and Feeding of Dave

Princess Sidhemana hated cartography. Studying musty old charts and maps made little sense when newer versions were available on microreaders. Yet her father insisted she know how to read the stellar graphs their ancestors had used when they settled on Delta Plantation 9, a planet five star systems removed from their home world of Earth.

Sighing, she gazed out the window at the northern horizon. Epsom and Colga, DP9’s smallest and largest moons respectively, shimmered along the spiny back of distant mountains. Their combined light cast a sanguine glow on the vast altine fields.

Sidhemana longed to lose herself among their indigo stalks and tubular white blossoms. She closed her eyes and imagined the thick sweetness of their fragrance. A rich earthiness undercut with a slight sulfuric bitterness would coat her tongue if she tasted the nectar dripping from the flowers.

Angry voices outside the literacy chamber shattered her daydream. Mother was yelling at Tarken again. Sidhemana rolled her eyes and focused on the tattered map spread on a wide slate table.

“But, Mother,” Tarken’s whine pierced the outer doors. “Dave needs the beetles! He’s a growing iguana and--”

“I understand, but why do you insist on hoarding gosha beetles?”

“They’re Dave’s favorite.”

“Tarken, gosha beetles are disgusting, not to mention dangerous,” Mother lectured. “If they escape, they’ll eat this entire home in less than a week.”

“If they get out, I’ll unleash Dave. He’ll track them.”

“Tarken...”

“Truly, Mother, you shouldn’t worry.” His voice faded as though he were slowly retreating. “You’re starting to get a crease between your eyes.”

“Tarken!”

Quick footsteps reverberated through the literacy chamber as Tarken fled their Mother’s disapproval, pulling peals of laughter from Sidhemana.

(word count 288) by Jeannie

*under word count award

Princess and the Pea

Princess took a sure-footed leap across the gap between dilapidated rooftops and settled himself in a sit, his back against a crumbling chimney. He gazed at the vast glittering castle and its verdant grounds. The sun, slipping below the horizon, cast everything in a cherry-gold glow that reflected his unusually sanguine mood. For once, his life was perfect.

He made a clicking noise with his tongue, coaxing a pea-green iguana from the depths of his oversized jacket. The lizard sauntered to his shoulder and shot him a proud, ill-humored glare.

"Our work has paid off, Pea," Princess said, beaming. "The shit ends for us today."

Pea blinked.

"Aren't you excited?" Princess inquired. "No longer will we be treated like vermin on the street! No longer will we have to beg for the food we missed out on because of the other orphans and their greedy hands!" No longer would they taunt him, either, for the clerical mishap that was his name.

Pea stared. Then burped.

"Pea! We want to remember this moment forever. Don't ruin it."

Pea curled his tail into a question mark as if to say, "So?"

Princess shook his head. "Soon, you will have your own room. And you can stop hoarding shiny objects in the pocket of my jacket. Doesn't that make you happy?"

Pea cocked his head.

"And I'll no longer answer to Princess Boy Noname, Pea," he declared. "I will be: PB Nomer, Master of Cartography for the Royal Family." This he said with a grand flourish of his arms.

Then he grinned and snatched the iguana from his shoulders, holding him close to his face. "At least until I get into the map room and use the key you stole to get that treasure."

Pea scrunched his face.

"You do have the key, don't you, Pea?"

The iguana gave him a tiny nod. Then shook his head.

The grin slipped off Princess's face. "Well where is it, then? You had it when we stole dinner."

Pea's stomach grumbled. His face turned uncomfortably.

Princess narrowed his eyes. "Peeeeea?"

The lizard's stomach rumbled again.

"Pea! You ate it?!"

The iguana burped, his breath carrying a distinctly metallic scent.

Princess rolled his eyes and glared at the castle. "Great." He sighed heavily and set the iguana down. "Well, the shit ends for us tomorrow, then."

(word count 409 {yeah, yeah I went over -- but it's my birthday so I can! Ha!}) by Alexis


*funniest/most clever award

Next week...well...we're not quite sure. It'll be a surprise. *grin*

Judging a Book by its Cover: Michelle's Take

After rereading Jeannie and Alexis’s posts on this book cover business, one thing became clear to me…

Book covers (like books) function and satisfy in a multitude of ways.

Books! Books! So Many Books!

Perhaps that sounds a little like a copped-out response. But, what more could I possibly say on the subject? The passion and the reason have both been addressed by each of my pod partners. Let’s see if I can peel away at the subject from another angle. Romance.

Personally, as book buyers go, I’m beginning to believe I’m a specimen of a dying breed. With sales of e-readers and tablets rising and the doom and gloom of the future of publishing looming overhead (all of this partnered with the supposed empire-altering-power of e-publishing), I’m not sure what to think of the way I buy books -- especially in our current publishing market. Every one I know owns and raves about their Kindle or Nook. I’ve had mine for three years and have (maybe) fifteen books downloaded onto it. (My husband can attest that I have bought near ten times that, annually, in actual books). In my mid-30’s, I’m already one of those people saying stuff like, “Back in my day if I wanted to read a book, I had to flip pages. Actually FLIP pages.” There’s no romance, no nostalgia, in digital files.

I’m nostalgic about books. I like the feel of a book; the look of it in my hand. And even though I know I shouldn’t (in our world of renew, reuse, and recycle)… gods do I love the smell of paper! Both the gluey, inky scent of newly printed as well as the slightly mildewy, dusty odor of pre-owned. (The latter isn’t probably healthy for me, but man, it’s so delicious!) Bottom line, I’m the kind of book buyer who frequents the two big box bookstores in my region (because all the independent stores have since closed). And I visit my local library’s swap bin every three weeks, looking for that gem in the sand. In both cases, I peruse the bindings, cover by cover, and fill my arms until I’ve found the tomes that make the cut.

How do they make the cut?

A lot of it has to do with book covers.

"Which one will give me that come hither look?"

First, I pick up the books that attract me. Books covers are a first impression, after all. You should know that I prefer hardbacks because they look substantial. They make me feel they are dependable. But book covers are ultimately a tall, dark drink of water that one desires to get to know a little better. Often the attractive ones showcase the promise of a twist of darkness, mystery, and high stakes. How do I know? Symbolism, color choices, and enough vagueness to make me feel like there’s a little risk involved. But mostly… I read the back of the book. Then I read the inside jacket-flaps. And finally, I read the first three to five pages. On a rare occasion I’ll consider super-famous-author-X’s one-liner in my decision-making process (if that one-liner is flirty enough, yet transparent enough, to put me at ease). And on an even rarer occasion I’ve been known to “date” a book, see it more than once, or maybe buy it a cup of coffee and fondle it a little before taking it home. But, I digress.

My point? With so many books to read, if I’m not at least mildly intrigued by the premise and the writing before I buy it, I don’t have the time to make a ten to fifteen hour commitment. And my time is precious to me.

But, let’s back up for a second. What is the initial factor that makes me reach for a book?

I had to think hard about this – really hard. As a writer and reader I’d thought this would be a no-brainer. But I found myself stumped. I even talked to my thirteen-year-old niece, a formidable book consumer, because I realized I hadn’t ever thought really hard about why a book cover entices me.

She said to me, “I hate it when books put people’s faces on the front cover.  I don’t want to know how they see the characters. I want to imagine them the way I want to.”

Sound familiar? (see Alexis’s post on Jan 10)

Some of My Favorite YA Covers

So, I went to my YA bookcases (because those are at hand in my dining room) and I quickly hand-selected books that I remembered that I loved the covers of and...something interesting appeared before me.

No faces.

It seems that I, too, don’t like to be told how to imagine a character. I’m an adult after all, and I can decide with whom I want to spend my time. Without you spelling it out to me.

It’s like the whole Harry Potter/Daniel Radcliffe conundrum. After being inundated with the visual bombardment of the movies and media frenzy I can’t -- even in my mind’s eye  -- recall the Harry I imagined and fell in love with when I first read the books. And I felt the same heart-stricken woe Alexis did when Behemoth was released. I totally get it!

A Selection of Other Favorite Covers

So I looked a little harder. I went into my office. I found this goes for my “adult” bookshelves, too. I pulled out some of those. My findings? I lean toward simplicity, suggestion, mood, what feels like originality to me, and above all, promise.

But, wait. Let’s talk Cheetos for a moment. (see Jeannie’s blog on Jan 17)

Yes, those scarily orange crunchy salty empty carbohydrates we pretend not to love but secretly stuff in our underwear drawer and eat in the middle of the night when no one is watching. I’m referring to whatever you find pleasure reading, escapist fiction, genre fiction, A.K.A., pretty much anything that has a clear label on a bookstore shelf and you buy because you expect it to make you think and feel a certain way.) Some of us hide these treats. But, some of us know that the tried and true bag of snack food is meant to be passed along to our friends like a bad case of mono, because we know there’s something so sinful, possibly shameful, and utterly delicious in them. We don’t want to be alone with our guilty pleasures. And because on some deep-seeded level we know eating Cheetos, in the dark, is a one-way path to a lonely addiction. No one wants to be a lonely addict -- we want friends to validate and enable us! After all, only those who drink alone are alcoholics, right? Again, I digress.

What I’m saying is… book covers are at their core, labels. And (as Jeannie said) these are the kinds of labels we as consumers don’t like to be surprised by.

Switch gears. Let’s think about blockbuster films. A vast majority of us would have a bit of a problem if the trailer or poster for the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie promised another swash-buckling pirate adventure but we find these promises are images pulled from flashbacks of previous films. Really the movie is about how Jack Sparrow falls into a time machine that lands him in the year 3027 and he must peril, hopelessly, through a scorched post-apocalyptic earth. In the end, the film is nothing more than Jack walking, endlessly, as he feeds the only stray dog on the planet portions of his own flesh to psychotically hold on to his own humanity. Then, he dies. Most of us would be a little put out. (Though, I admit, if any actor were capable of pulling off that twist, my money's on Johnny).

So what I’m trying to say is… I get it!

Readers like Cheetos. Publishers like Cheetos. Marketing departments like Cheetos. Booksellers love Cheetos! And most importantly… I love Cheetos! Processed, branded book covers are as sure a thing as a nice big bag of Cheetos. Admittedly, I do like a certain amount of risk. But I also relish in the security of knowing I don’t have to take a risk. I can take the safe bet.

So where does that leave me? (With a really long rambling blog entry that basically says what both Jeannie and Alexis already did. So “good on you!” those who have stuck it out this far.) Let me see if I can wrangle this monster of a topic the ground… and put it out of your misery (and mine).

 In the immortal words of Inigo Montoya, "No. There is too much. Let me sum up..."

So PRETTY!

I collect certain kinds of books for certain reasons. And it’s largely due to the cover. So, in a sense, I collect book covers. I have a growing collection of fine bound books. Collectible books. Many are timeless classic titles in leather, cloth, or are limited release and art cover editions. These books are only about the cover. Personally, I think Folio Society does a great job with moderately affordable fine editions and I love those editions solely for how they look and feel (and smell). They are simple, elegant, and hold the promise of something wonderful between their covers. Then, a couple of years ago, I passed through an airport and spied my first Corelie Bickford-Smith Penguin Edition. It’s the kind of book cover I covet, pet adoringly, and snuggle with at night because it’s an aesthetically pleasing specimen for my book collection whilst being truly affordable. The titles are classics so they're somewhat vetted. But let’s be honest -- owning them is all about the pretty cloth cover.

Then there's the old books. Sometimes they come from used bookshops, thrift stores, libraries, and antique shops. I like those to look like old books should look. Old. Crafted. Lasting. They should look like art pieces that have stood the test of time. And if there's a mysterious inscription on the inside of the cover from someone in the 1880's... awesome!

Timeless, Don't You Think?

In our digital age, buying actual physical books is romantic. It evokes a sort of nostalgia. Book covers are potential lovers and friends. When I buy a book and read it, it then becomes something entirely different. It becomes an artifact from a past relationship. It becomes an experience I’ve had, a memory I’ve collected, a story that evolved me emotionally and/or intellectually in some significant way. It’s not all about a rapid download of information before I move onto the next file. And at the end of my life, I like to imagine I will take comfort knowing when I lose my sight I can put my hands on that artifact, smell it, feel it, and still flip through all those pages.

Book covers evoke a sense of romance. And like any romance, when you take the time to examine it, it can quickly become complicated, layered, and even controversial. Some of us go on blind dates because our friends set us up. Or we have a measure of faith that internet-dating sites do actually weed out some of the undesirables. Not everyone is looking for the same thing. But in the end, I know I will always be a book shopper because I love to scrutinize their covers.

So basically... yeah... what Alexis and Jeannie said.  *grin*

Next week? Something far more interesting and entertaining than this. And shorter. Promise.

Peas Out.

Judging a Book by its Cover: Jeannie's take

Book Covers

First, let me say that I agree with everything Alexis said last week. Publishers will say they want "fresh" material and yet are willing to slap variations of the same cover on dozens of books. Why? The simple answer is because those covers sell. Little will change until those covers stop selling.

Let's step back for a moment and not view a book as a book or covers as art. Let's look at both for what they truly are to publishers: packaging and product.

Think of your favorite snack food. Personally, I like Cheetos--crunchy, twisted, and covered in a neon orange powdery cheese-like substance guaranteed to stain fingers for hours, if not days. I know exactly what I'm going to get when I pick up that orange bag of Cheetos with the grinning, shades-wearing cheetah. It that consistency that appeals to me as a consumer. If we take this same logic and apply it to books, then the reasons for the sameness that Alexis lamented become obvious.

Publishers like to present consistency to readers. They want to send a message that their authors are among the best. The problem is that every publisher is trying to send the same message so when a cover style strikes a chord with readers and sells books, publishers run with it. Unfortunately, this logic creates a sensory overload of sameness after a while. But, as I said, until the sales reflect a significant change in these covers' appeal to readers the Cheetos will stay orange instead of changing to red, green, or blue.

Of course there are other factors that go into the design of a cover, certain conventions based on genre. Take the urban fantasy genre for example. How many female characters (often redheaded women) have you seen wearing leather (regardless of whether or not the character actually wears leather in the book), standing or crouching in partial shadow, and holding a weapon? Probably too many to count. Another trend from a few years ago was to show a female protagonist from the back, never seeing her face, but highlighting the often tribal style tattoo inked on the small of her back. How many of these heroines actually possessed that tattoo? I don't think there were as many as the covers led readers to believe.

Curious bit of trivia... If you pick up a book and aren't sure if it's a paranormal romance or urban fantasy, remember this: if the character on the front cover is female, it's most likely UF but if the character is male and shirtless, it's most likely paranormal romance. Why? I have no idea, but spend some time checking these two genres in your local bookstore. I'm sure you'll find it an interesting experiment. But I digress...

Another reason for the gluttony of similar covers: cost. It's literally cheaper to pull a stock photo from a graphic design file, tweak it a bit, add some eye-catching font for the title and author's name, and limit the color palette to four or five colors for a book that will be printed thousands of times than it is to commission an artist to create a unique work for that same book. That's not to say that it doesn't happen. But think about it. When was the last time you saw the silhouette of a running man on the cover of the thriller and asked yourself if you hadn't seen that same image on a different book from a different author? This also illustrates my point about conventions based on genre. Thrillers have running men. Mysteries often have magnifying glasses. Fantasies will sport dragons, swords, and/or glowing magical objects. These are the Cheetos of the publishing world.

My ultimate point is that there are reasons for the blandness and sameness of covers presented to readers. Do I agree with them? Not always. Do I long for something that's truly new and different? Yes. Do I get excited when I see a cover that is different? Absolutely! Do I pass over potentially outstanding books that unfortunately suffer from an indescribable blandness or an excessive sameness of cover? Yes.

Do I think any of these is likely to change in the foreseeable future? No, and that truly saddens me but as a reader and as a author.

Tune in next week to read Michelle's take. Until then...

Peas out.

Judging a Book by its Cover: Alexis's take

Book Covers

These two simple words inspire a passion of opinion and eagerness to discuss that you'll rarely see from me. Maybe it's my graphic design background, or my creative spirit. But honestly, I think it's just common sense -- aesthetically speaking -- regardless of my profession or hobbies.


It's been hammered into our skulls to "never judge a book by its cover" and as true as that is {for there are several books I absolutely loved which I refused to read in public without first taking off the dust cover and hiding that sucker} they have the saying for a reason. Because we do judge books by their covers. If we didn't, the publishers wouldn't spend so much time and money on cover art and artists to begin with. Covers matter. Plain and simple. They're signposts to the masses, beacons to individuals, tiny billboards working hard to get your attention.


But like billboards, and anything in advertising, not all covers are equal. {Why else would vanity presses and special edition covers do so well?} If the book's cover doesn't grab you, you won't grab the book. It gets passed by. Worse, if the cover turns you away, well... the book is being turned away as well.


Now, I'm not saying that the cover will make or break a book {my experience with Westerfeld's Leviathan/ Behemoth/ Goliath hardcover-dustjacket-redesign-midway-through-the-series-debacle is proof of that}... {I'll get to that later... possibly*}. I believe the title holds a fair percent of the initial pull, your loyalty to a story or author is another consideration, and then, if those things do their job, the back cover copy and the inside flap.


What I'm saying is that book covers get the coveted "first impression" moment. And for a reader {well, a reader like me... and most of the readers I know} that's a big moment.


The problem, lately, especially in YA, is that I'm starting to get a lot of bad first impressions. I'm being turned away. The publishers, who think they've hit gold plastering actual photos of actual people who may or may not look anything like the actual characters or have anything to do with the actual story, are instantly turning away an entire set of customers; those who hate to have images planted in our minds for us {hence why we read the books before we see the movies -- though "movie versions" of book covers are not my target}. It's almost insulting. We, the readers, the cultivators of imagination, are being told how we should imagine. We are, essentially, having to take creative direction on our own creativity.


Where before I'd be drawn to a beautiful, interesting, or original cover -- something that evoked the feel of the book and drew me in {which I have always prided the YA genre as doing} and maybe even inspired me as an artist -- I'm now overwhelmed, dismayed, and put off by the ceaseless sameness that seems to have pervaded the shelves. I skip entire sections... because they're all the same cover. Just a different title. Maybe a different shade of black or a different splash of color {I'm starting to wonder if maybe there's a shortage in cover artists and the YA publishers are just sharing the same person}.


So we have a problem. Luckily, there's a solution. {No, my suggested solution will never be "just switch to digital books and ignore the covers entirely," thankyouverymuch}.


Publishers need to stop regurgitating designs because they're afraid to take risks, constantly going to what's "safe" and what's "working"-- terms I've found they really enjoy. For one, there's no growth in that. Sure, it's working. For now. Just like Twilight-inspired wanna-be stories are "working." {Forgive me for the reference. I feel nauseous using it}. But eventually, safe becomes same and the market over-saturates. At that point, everything becomes a fad. There's no art in that.


Now, I'm not published. But one day I will be. And I certainly don't want the book cover equivalent of 80's hair or parachute pants holding a place of honor on my bookshelf -- with my name on it. I want a reflection of my work and thus a reflection of myself. How can you do anything but be original in your cover design if you focus on the individual in that way? If you stay true to the art? Art is risk. Art is outer expression of the inner. Art is rebellion against sameness and embracing the unique and creative. And book covers are art.


So for the love of the written word... somebody tell those publishers to let their artists create art again.


*for my opinion on this, visit the comments {I'm like, the 12th post. My "name" is Alexis} of a great little article I read the other day about book covers in YA (paranormal romance)... CLICK HERE :)

Pick a Pea: Michelle - Advice, Playgrounds, and an Invisible Giraffe Named Pete

Happy New Year from the Ninja Peas...

 




     We have an exciting year of blog topics, interviews, and games planned for you in 2012. Thanks for sticking it out in 2011 as we got our feet wet and hands dirty in this new joint blogging effort. We hope it's been as fun for you as it has for us. As we continue on this strange, random, and sometimes amusing journey, we look forward to sharing it with all our loyal readers (and maybe we'll gather a few some new ones along the way). Thanks for showing up! We'll continue to try to make it worth your while.

     Since we're spending the next week or two reconfiguring the blog schedule for the new year,  here's an old post from an old blog of mine to pass the time. I hope you enjoy.

     Until next week...

 Advice, Playgrounds, and an Invisible Giraffe Named Pete
(originally posted 3/3/11 at Under the Influence)

     I’ve heard a lot of advice about writing and the road to “authordom.” I listen to a lot, ignore a little, and manipulate the rest to suit my needs. But the truest and most helpful piece of advice I’ve ever heard was: surround yourself with the people you most want to be like.

     Seems like a no-brainer, right? I want to write and publish books. Therefore, I must surround myself with people who write and publish books. It’s easy in theory but when you spend too much time over-thinking it--like me--it becomes a little more difficult to execute.

     I should tell you that this one tiny piece of advice altered my worldview. (I know! Drastic, huh?) But when I finally understood it, I figured out what the difference between wanting to become a writer and becoming a writer meant. It’s kind of like recess in grade school. Wannabes stand on the outskirts and say, “I can do that!", "He’s doing it wrong!", "Oh, maybe I can’t do that after all...", "Maybe I’m not good enough.” But the real deals? Those are the kids that stop watching, stop over-thinking and jump into the mix, take risks, scrape their knees, and make grandiose plans for tomorrow’s recess.

     When I realized this, my first thought was, “Where do I find these people?” My second thought was, “Oh, crap! This is going to require me talking to people I don’t know.”

     Suddenly, it sounded like the worst advice I’d ever heard.

     Why? I hated recess. I was the kid sitting on the wall, alone, mumbling to myself while the other kids picked teams, made alliances, and subsequently turned on each other like rabid dogs during the chaos of an impromptu tether ball tournament organized by an eleven-year-old third grader named Spike. ::shudder:: Scary.

     Even as an adult I find social interactions stressful, difficult, and (often times) downright terrifying. One on one, I’m not too bad. But get me in a room full of people without a 12-pack of beer and I’m a wreck (and with the 12-pack, I’m a sloppy drunk. It’s a lose-lose situation). Being around people, interacting with them, well, it’s not my first choice of how to spend my day. I’d much rather write, read, or pluck the cat hair out of my living room rug. Those activities are safe--because there’s no risk of humiliation involved (until you post it in a blog or tweet it, but that’s a subject for another day). These activities require no filters between my brain and my mouth. Therefore, my blood pressure stays nice and low. I acknowledge that this sounds antisocial and completely mad. Well, that’s because it is. But I like it that way. I’m stress-free that way. (Now whether or not it’s good for me psychologically? That’s for a therapist to figure out.)

     What am I getting at? I’ve been an introvert since birth--it's true (and somewhat ironic). I was the little loner girl who had imaginary friends (yes, plural) that lived in the many nooks and crannies of the attic, the basement, and backyard. Various gnomes, fairies, unicorns, and a giraffe named Pete kept me company and kept my family in a constant state of confusion (especially when I insisted, night after night, that thirty-six extra place settings were required at the dinner table). My imagination has been my best friend these last three-plus decades, and it has never failed me, smacked me in the head and dubbed me the kooties-monster, or knocked over my science fair project whilst laughing maniacally. I embrace my propensity toward introversion and I believe most writers do to some extent. It’s why writers, especially fiction writers, acknowledge the voices of their adult imaginations without fear or a self-misdiagnosis of schizophrenia via Web M.D.

     My point? Surrounding myself with the people I most want to be like has been, and continues to be, the most difficult--yet rewarding--step I’ve made as a writer. It means putting myself out there in workshops, at conferences, and into conversations with people I don’t know. But the thing I didn’t acknowledge before is: these are my people (and they probably also have...um...had imaginary friends). These people just happened to realize, before I did, that you don’t get picked for a team if you don’t stand in line. Since then, I’ve made myself get off the wall--even when the bile rises in my throat because I think I’m going to say something stupid and everyone on the playground will think I’m weird and laugh at me. It’s right then that I force myself in line. And, in line, I get to hear the stories of the people who have been on the road to “authordom” (or in some cases paved the road to “authordom”) and who have traveled it with success and failure. Their stories make the whole game seem a little less scary. I get to learn from those who know the game. I endeavor to build friendships with them. They tell me how to best appease Spike. And I don’t feel that stab of loneliness when I realize I’ve been talking to a fourteen-foot tall invisible giraffe named Pete.

     Don’t misunderstand; people still terrify me. And I still love Pete. But the thing is, on the playground, the kids are playing the same game I want to play. And they're damn good at it. I want to be like them so why wouldn’t I jump in the middle of it all? The best advice is the advice that puts me on the right playground, with the right kids, and in the right game. And on this playground I hear all the best advice about game rules and improving my skills. That means I’m one step closer to finally getting picked.